Of Cars and Cafes
by TammerTime
Summary: DirkxJake Coffeeshop AU, set in a world without Sburb. Rated T for language.
1. Chapter 1: Naps and Caffeine

Your name is Dirk Strider, and you're about to fall asleep. Between DJing, getting into rap battles with Squarewave while you try to go to sleep, and shuttling Roxy home, you haven't gotten sleep in two days. Roxy. You wish she would stop drinking, both for her health and your sleep cycles. Getting into your old Fiat, you start to drive home for some primo shuteye.

You jolt upright as someone honks at you, realizing you fell asleep.

Fuck.

You pull over, thanking the parking gods that you don't have to drive around for a spot, ducking into the nearest coffee shop. Bleary-eyed, the gold and cream walls reflect off your shades but they don't register, mint-condition Indiana Jones and Noir film posters going unrecognized as you mumble "Triple espresso." At the barista, who is FAR too cheerful for someone working at six am. You just make out his nametag, "Jake", who hands you your drink and wishes you a "great morning, hope you feel less tired!". You'd be annoyed at his assuming your energy levels if "tired" wasn't a huge understatement of the soul crushing, shortcircuiting, nerve numbing "tiredness" you were feeling.

You sit in the back corner, staring at your espresso but too tired to pick it up. You manage to lift it to your lips once, eyebrow twitching at the bitter taste but it lets you keep your eyes open. Another sip. You sit back in the cushioned, wicker chair as your stomach warms up from the frigid winds outside, caffeine making your pulse slowly doped up.

"Hey, you all right mate?" A chipper voice with the slightest accent that you can't quite place wakes you up and you see Jake leaning over the table towards you. Rubbing your eyes, you ask "I'm sorry about that, I was up all night yesterday." He raises his eyebrows, and you realize what you just implicated. Damn, you're significantly less cool half asleep. Not that you can't roll with this. "I DJ." You say, smirking as his eyebrows lower again. "I'd have let you sleep, but I'm going to lunch soon, and Jane might get annoyed. Sorry!" Lunch? He let you nap for nearly five hours. As you slide into the ironically bright pink coat that does its best to make you look like a douche, Jake sets a cup in front of you. "On the house, seems like you need it." "Thanks." You say, wondering if that was nice or an insult. It occurs to you as you walk out that you kinda acted like a prick. Oh well. It's not like you're ever going back.

**A/N: This is just a preview; the other chapters are coming soon!**


	2. Chapter 2: Chauffeurs and Not-Coffee

Be Jake English.

You are now Jake English, and hey, it's the sleepy guy again. "Hello again, uh..." It's then you remember that he didn't give out his name. "Dirk Strider." He replies, and you wonder if he's tired or just a man of action! He hasn't got any gear, though, so you guess he had another late night. "Right then, what will you have today?" "Tea, just give me whatever one you like." You suppose he isn't tired, and a small voice in the back of your head wonders if you've done something to offend him. You hope not, as he seems like a fun guy, albeit a quiet one. Pouring out the Lady Grey, adding in the requisite thin slice of lemon, and handing it to him, you sort of wish Jane was here. It wouldn't surprise you if she turned out to be some kind of heiress, considering her impeccable manners. Oh well.

He sits down without paying, and you consider asking him for the money but decide against it at the last second, hoping he'll pay when he leaves. After about two minutes of pretending to clean up, your curiosity gets the best of you. "So, another night out on the town?" You ask him, and when he takes a second to reply you wonder if he's asleep again. "No, but I was in the neighborhood. Figured I'd come again." He pauses. "Oh, God, I didn't pay you. Why didn't you tell me?" Why _didn't_ you tell him? Does it really matter that he's a bit intimidating? He's just a customer. Before you get a chance to reply, he gives you a five dollar bill, telling you to keep the change. "That's four dollars, Mr. Strider." You say, because it felt sort of wrong to be getting such a big tip for your social idiocy. "Dirk. And I know- just consider it paying for the espresso." "Thanks, then, Dirk." As he walks out, you think you see him smile a bit.

-

Be Dirk Strider.

You are now Dirk Strider, and-OW JESUS WHAT THE EVERLOVING JEFF WAS THAT YOU DOUCHEPANCAKE!? The aschloch who hit you speeds off faster than a drunk driver on the rainbow road, and you hear a jangle of the coffeehouse door opening as you flash his licence plate with a one fingered salute and a "I hope you get beaten up by Pinkie fucking Pie, you paleolithic fuck!".

"Dirk, are you alright?!" Jake asks, sprinting towards you before hovering a bit as he tries to decide which limb looks most injured. "Yeah, bro. Just a flesh wound." Trying to stand up again, you realize that no, it was not just a flesh wound. You find this out sometime between the sharp pain shooting down your right leg and landing your ass onto the pavement. "Okay, uh, maybe a bit of help would be useful," you manage to say as you grit your teeth and try not to freak out the perpetually excited Jake English. He helps you up, and woah, he's actually kinda buff. You decide to lean against him as putting any pressure on your right ankle makes you collapse onto him completely. Using him as a human crutch, you realize that there's no way you can drive, much less walk to Roxy' s, who's probably passed out anyway.

"Listen, I know that this is imposing on you and all, but would you mind driving me to the hospital? I'm really sorry, but if I try to go by myself I'll probably cause another accident." You ask, feeling awkward and wondering where the hell your debonair attitude flew off to. Damn, if your bro could see you now he'd laugh at you. He'll, he's probably hosting a telepathic chuckle gala right now from whatever hotel room he's camping in. Cold gin, hot pianos, eccentric millionaire, yellow car, the works. Regardless of your sudden loss of charm and cool, Jake happily agrees. It occurs to you as he pretty much carries you to his car that he could be a murderer or rapist waiting to strike, but you decide you'd rather take your chances with him than drag your sorry ass on a train and hobble over to the ER.

As you're lowered into the shotgun seat, mumbling thanks and promising to buy him a drink- not coffee- once this is all over, you figure there's no turning back now, and mention to him that you still have one leg you can kick his ass with if he does try to kill you. He laughs at that, saying he'll ward off your attack with his "aura of unappreciated chivalry." You chuckle back.

Limping into the sterile-ish waiting room and giving up entirely on trying to use your right leg, you wonder if buying a "drink-not coffee" for the barista who didn't abduct you and took you to the emergency room counted as a date.


	3. Chapter 3: Dancing and Crush

Jake insists on taking you home, regardless of how many times you insist that you're fine. By the time you walk out of the hospital, garish purple cast strapped to your leg and decorated with metallic stickers, he's already babbling about his adventures and you admit that for once, not having to talk is kind of nice. You're fine with hearing Jake talk about his five month long camping trips along the Adirondack trail, or him fighting off a brown bear that had tried to steal his beef jerky or something, not quite catching the details. It's a break from the constant talking about how you were feeling, rating your pain when you came in and talking over insurance and stay length and it wore _you_ out, which was a damn hard thing to do, considering most of your nights were spent staying up until one at the earliest, and though you weren't exactly talkative, your phone buzzed once every half hour or so, with some news or offer or message from Roxy waiting at the other end. Once in a while, your bro remembers that you're alive and invites you to some party that's halfway across the country. You can never go to them.

"So it was pouring buckets outside, and-"he fumbles for his car keys, and you quietly note that his car is in the same spot as it was when he took you there. "and I get a message from Jane talking about baking or something," he finds the keys, snapping open his door with a swish and leaning over to open the passenger side one, and turning the key in the ignition as you slide in, avoiding the dangerously low doorframe. "and with what I swear was a pop, my phone died! I spent an extra night in the woods because I couldn't call her to pick me up!" Jake begins to drive off. "Anyway, enough about me, how are you feeling, Mr. Fragile?" "Oh, my, I'm just going to faint! Goodness knows I'm on the edge of death!" you reply, allowing your Texan drawl to come out as you collapse into the seat with a drawn out sigh. "Oh, ye elder gods, why must you subject me to this fate!" he answers, lifting both his hands from the steering wheel before realizing what he was doing and quickly grabbing it again. "Don't want to get into _another_ car crash, eh?" he says, laughing a bit but keeping his eyes on the road. "Shall I pull over and curse at the sky for killing one so innocent and devoid of fault?" he continues, and you respond with "I can't believe you would be so cold! Where is the frantic sobbing, the checking my pulse, the desperate attempts to revive my body, which grows colder in your arms? Honestly, and I thought you loved me! You didn't even try to kiss me awake!" you join in, smiling as he continues to laugh away, seeming genuinely happy. The jealously in you flickers on for a moment before you shove it away again. "Of course! How could I have been so neglectful! No chivalrous adventurer would leave such a helpless being die without a fight! You are the damsel in distress, it's you." You keep smiling as his giggles die down. "But yeah, I'd prefer to stay as uninjured as possible for now. If at all possible." Jake looks mischievous as he says "No guarantees," and speeds up enough to toss you back into your seat. As he slows down to the limit a second later, he glances over at you, half expectant, and you remember that you haven't told him where you live. You consider just asking him to take you back to the coffee shop, but that somehow seems rude, considering that he has driven you both to and from the hospital at this point. "I'll give you directions, don't worry. Your aura of chivalry has totally overpowered me, good sir." Why are you getting so awkward all of a sudden? Seriously, this is not how you're supposed to act. You're a _Strider_, for god's sake. "Alright," he relies casually, and you drive onto the large avenue which goes towards your house.

You pull up about 20 terrifying minutes later, as Jake slams the brakes to "keep you on your toes" whole you hope that your sutures don't pop, wondering if driving yourself home, although it would be dangerous, would be more comfortable than this. As you pull up to your apartment (with another jolting shock and laugh from English), you make a snap decision to let him in. You kind of owe him that, at this point. "Wanna come up?" You say. "I mean, there's a huge mess, but I can get you a soda- and that isn't coffee, eh?" It occurs to you around this time that you're asking a guy who you've only just met to come upstairs to your house. Oh well. To your relief, he doesn't freak out or anything and just says "Sounds cool!"

Fuck. Your house is worse off than you thought.

Jake hesitates for a second in the doorway, and you know why- it looks like you should be on Hoarders. There's at least ten different ventriloquist puppets within sight of the doorway, Lil' Cal is staring at him in the creepiest way, and there are no less than three vinyl records that Dave, the asshat that he is, fucking gave you when you moved out, saying that they were tokens of his undying affection or some bullshit like that. "Wow, you have a lot of records!" he says, and you inwardly bless him for not bringing up the puppets. "Yeah, my brother gave me loads, and I just kinda picked up on the habit of grabbing ones I liked…" He digs around for a second, then pulls out a Snoop Dogg record that you found in some dark corner of ebay, one eyebrow cocked and a smirk plastered on his face. Before he decides to poke Cal or find what you affectionately call "the ramen cupboard," you reach for a random record and play it. It's slow, and so, being the kinda guy you are, you refuse Jake's half laughing, four-octaves-lower-than-normal-how-does-he-even-do -that-with-his-voice offer of "Would you like to dance, good sir?", and start to twerk. Within thirty seconds of the piano music and 1920's vocals backing your intentionally shitty twerking, Jake has fallen on your couch, laughing hysterically and looking away, then glancing back and laughing even more loudly. You start laughing too, fucking _giggling_ at yourself and his constant laughing and you're just standing there with your hand on the arm of the couch with your shoulders shaking, not able to make any more sounds and grinning with this huge, dumb smile on your face.

Within a five seconds, Jake grabs your hand off the armrest and spins you around, stepping into the clear part of your living room and grabbing your other hand in one move like the classy motherfucker he is, and before you know it you're dancing, fox-trotting while still laughing and spinning around in circles like you're in third grade, switching between swing dancing to waltzing to an extremely old fashioned dance that causes both of you to trip as you try to remember its name, and eventually return to the foxtrot, rocking back and forth to avoid the shot on your floor and somehow, throughout the whole thing, keeping to the beat despite your incredibly unwieldy cast . Very suddenly, he pulls you into a close tango, and you contemplate cracking a joke about how forward he's being before you're literally flung onto a pile of puppets, Jake cackling with mischief as he flings your fridge open with the same force that he threw you with, disregarding you totally and stealing an orange soda before flopping down next to you and splashing it over your hair, making you look absolutely ridiculous. "You owe me a drink, remember?" Your expression had already fallen into its usual poker face, but you smile a little as you say "You're such a douche, English."


End file.
